


Bala-Tik: One Shot Collection

by skysonfire



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Brian Vernel, F/M, Guavian Death Gang - Freeform, Kanjiklub - Freeform, Leather, Love Story, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Original Character(s), Smut with a Story, Star Wars Universe, The First Order, city, scottish accent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6302185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire





	Bala-Tik: One Shot Collection

She likes the smell of his leather coat because it no longer smells of leather. She lifts it from the chair and feels its soft touch on her palms. The material is so used, and the interior is stained, but she brings it to her face and breathes him in. He is heavy and musky, but there are other hints: grass and cool darkness, smoke and liquor, sweet oil and skin.

There's a degree of uncertainty that courses through her as she slides her arm into the coat's sleeve. The forearms are tapered, but still large on her, and she slides her other arm inside, the whole of it riding up the bare skin of her back -- the high collar brushing against her ear.

She runs her hands over her breast, feeling the protective panels and rivits in the garment. She's touched them many times before, but never over her own body, and she wonders if her hands on him feel like this -- just a slight push, a pressure that conveys all of the emotions beating so ferociously within.

The night pours through the large windows of the apartment and she opens one fully to feel the city breeze on her face. The darkness is illuminated by skyscrapers and signs, by traffic directionals and hundreds of speeders, shuttles and cruisers crossing over and about each other in orderly grid formation. There is a din out there comprised of motors and horns -- music and voices. She craves the quiet of space, and she wants to go with him, she wants to tell him so. The toes of her bare feet curl as she thinks about it.

"What's this?" His voice, even when it's low, is so pronounced. She can tell that he’s smiling, and she turns to face the defined and pointed canines that he sports when he is amused. He can be so kind with them, or so, so vicious.

"I've always wanted to try it on," she says, pacing toward him, and sliding her hands down her sides.

He reaches out his long fingers and brushes back her sun-kissed hair.

"It's something you earn, you know," he informs, and his fingers press into the thick seams and spaces on the front of the coat.

"Haven't I?" She asks, her voice lower and quiet.

Although she can recall his eyes glimmering hazel and green in the sunlight of her planet, they are nothing like that now. They are large and as dark as death. They are rimmed in shadow, and punctuated by prominent, thick brows. He wears a full lip and delicate nose, both of which make his face so young, but his expression is weathered and tested. He is tired, and she can tell that there's a pressure on him, teasing all he's got with complete distruction. 

"It's not what you want." He touches her face with a hand calloused from the handling of the percussive cannon that he fancies.

Sometimes, his voice is such that it resounds like a song -- all of his words blending together to form something so complex, requiring interpretation. It didn't matter for how long her ear felt his accent -- her brain overdosed on it still and it caused a drunkenness inside her soul. Sometimes, in response, all she could do was stare at him like an enamored foreign child.

"I don't care, Bal." She lifts her pitch and tugs at the simple shirt that wraps his arm. "The cybernetics don't scare me. I want to help you. I want to help the Order." But he doesn't allow her to continue.

"No," he barks, and he forces her up against the wall next to the open window. His hand is on her throat, and his knee is between her legs. He holds her there and she is quiet. He doesn't hurt her, but she can feel her pulse pounding against his fingers.

"I won't see you mutilated for this," he pauses. "And definitely not for me."

He releases her throat and pulls at the clasp on his coat that she wears, wrenching it open to expose her pale flesh. He places his hand over her heart and thumbs against her erect nipple. Her hair dances about in the breeze that ghosts through the window. It brushes against his face and he closes his eyes, pressing into her neck and sucking on the flesh directly below her ear.

She moans as he fondles the wetness between her thighs, and his name escapes her lips on her breath. "Bala."

There is a furrow in his brow that develops when she says it, but she distracts him with her mouth, her tongue forcing him open and touching tenderly against his own. Her fingers navigate his pants loose and he guides himself inside of her effortlessly. He knows her body, and he lifts her leg at the knee as he pumps his pelvis against her. He his so attentive and thick -- his thrusting takes her so deeply that it almost hurts, but she braces herself against him to assist with an even harder push.

His breathing is quick and labored, and he is shaking. She burns with him, so she slips his coat from her shoulders and wrenches his shirt over his head. Pressing her chest against him, she can feel his heart galloping. She slows him and takes his face in her hands. He continues to rock her with a rhythm that brings a heat into her core that threatens release.

She moves her head aside and breathes in the scent on his neck -- that same unique beauty that hangs on his coat. She is surrounded by it. It's in her nose, her eyes, her ears, her throat. It permiates everything that makes her human, and she knows that she can't. She won't watch him go. Not again.

"Take me with you. I don't care," she implores.

He doesn't respond to her plea. Instead, he withdraws from her and places his lips on her forehead. 

"It's beautiful out there tonight," he says. She can tell though that his eyes don't even see the city. He is remarking at the stars so far above.

He lifts his coat from the floor and drapes it about her shoulders. 

"Yes," he says, suddenly, as he comes to stand in front of the window. "You've earned it." 

He reaches for her hand.


End file.
